Spyra — the dark spot of Laurelfia.
It was an isolated, lawless district. People said the air of Spyra carried the stench of rotten flesh. No one dared to enter that place. There was no crime in the world that hadn't been committed by the people of Spyra. Many officers came to arrest the criminals, but none ever returned. The one officer who did come back was mentally unstable and couldn't even remember his own name.
Since it was the death of the mayor's daughter, one of the city's most skilled detectives, Mr. Arlen Kael, was appointed to the case after the case conference.
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One morning at the Laurelfia Central Police Headquarters…
In the chamber of the Chief Commissioner of Police, Mr. Garrick Vane, and the city's Deputy Mayor, Mr. Charles Dinklage, exchanged tense words about the case.
"You don't need to worry about the case, Sir Dinklage. It's in safe hands. Mr. Arlen Kael is investigating it."
"What? Arlen Victor Kael is investigating it? Wasn't he in an accident? Is he even able to handle the case?"
Mr. Vane leaned forward, his eyes sharp. "Do you think an accident can hold him down, Sir Dinklage?"
"Have you ever seen him losing a case?"
Someone knocked at the door. It was Detective Shane Gilbert.
"Good morning, gentlemen," said Detective Gilbert, a smile on his face.
"Good morning, Detective. I didn't expect you this early. Mr. Dinklage, meet Mr. Gilbert. He will be assisting Mr. Kael in the investigation."
This time, Dinklage's face relaxed slightly — a hint of relief replacing his earlier worry.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Shane. I've heard a lot about you."
Suddenly, they heard another knock at the door.
It was Detective Arlen Kael.
"Finally, you're here, aren't you?" said the Chief with a sigh of relief.
"Mmm hmm," said Arlen.
The three of them looked at him, confused. There was something off about him. He couldn't even stand or talk properly — not because he was recovering from the accident, but because he was completely drunk.
Arlen was a man in his thirties. He was tall, with black, messy hair. He always wore a brown coat, a nod to his admiration for Sherlock Holmes. His eyes were red, but they hid something — pain, or perhaps a deeper mystery. He'd been drinking too much lately after the accident. He claimed it helped him sleep.
Because he was too drunk, he didn't talk much but agreed with everything. And so, they began their journey to Spyra — unaware of the dangers that awaited them.
When they reached Spyra, it was already 12:30 past midnight. Detective Shane was asleep in the car. Arlen stepped out, pulling a beer can from his pocket and cracking it open. He took a sip and began observing the place. The streets were silent, and there was something strange about the wind — it knocked the drunkenness right out of him.
A strange consciousness stirred within him. The atmosphere itself seemed to whisper, "Beware."
Suddenly, it began to rain. Yet, he couldn't hear the sound of the rain — as if the place wanted him to listen to something else. Then, a scream echoed from a nearby alley. The voice was disoriented, but he could hear it clearly. Before he knew it, his body moved on its own. He started running toward the scream.